Wings for a Coup d'état
by Lynny M
Summary: A look at Atlas, and his time before the revolution. He might worry, but he doesn’t need to...he’s got wings.
1. Chapter 1

-

"_You know this story is good because there's a fancy French term in the title." _(And forgive me if ffnet refuses to allow accent marks in titles. Filthies.)

Author's notes: I have always loved Atlas in an unexplainable way. When I first saw Metropolis, I could comprehend nothing about the plot, except for Atlas and the children. He's an almost vague character, but his actions are a vital piece of the puzzle, and what we do see of him is very beautiful (aside from the drinking problem; of course, that beverage might have very well been water, and he was smiling and talking, so he must have been ok.)

This story is supposed to be a lovely (and pleasingly emotional) examination of the time before Atlas leads the revolution. Unfortunately, this first chapter is little more than a boost to get the story where it needs to be (isn't that the case for everything?). Also, it's a load of crap. The transitions between things really disturb me; not only is everything past the first break weak, it's also stupid. So forgive me. I don't really have a choice. Must continue writing and posting. Writing and posting. Mmm, posting.

Interesting note, while we're on the subject: This is loosely based off of a short piece I did for my creative writing class, in which we had to use the terms 'embattled' 'bold' and 'color'. I titled that story 'Wings', because I couldn't shake the image of Atlas rising up on somebody's shoulders, calling the mob forward, and having wings because he was an angel. I think he is. (What the hell?)

Might I add that Duke Red is, like he should be, a bad guy in this. + _ignores Duke Red's deeply hurt expression and glomps onto Atlas_ +

Now, on with the official things:

**General Disclaimer: **Osamu Tezuka's Metropolis. This is what this is based off of. Deal with it.

**Ratings: **Somewhere around PG-13 for violence, language, general boorishness, etc.

**Soundtrack: **"Learning to Fly", by Tom Petty, is definitely the backbone of this thing. Expect quotes. And no, I didn't think of it because that one movie is being advertised with it; I figured it out by myself (which explains the brick through the TV screen).

" 'Zone' Rhapsody " from the Metropolis original score soundtrack, which is a beautiful soundtrack regardless of whether one has seen the film or not. _Zone_ sets the mood, methinks. ('slums')

"Emotion" by Daft Punk. Don't ask me why, but I used it when I needed to force the story along. Other than that, it means nothing.

**Credits: **My CW teacher, who actually asked me if I was doing something and basically got me off my ass; Faith, who accepted the job of reader and editor, and put up with my shoddy explanations as to why things were the way they were, and made little red marks all over the paper, etc; those friends who keep me entertained and suggest things for me to write, especially a homosexual romance including the Minister of State of Metropolis.

Ok...am I done? Here we go...

-

_Wings for a Coup d'état_

To Emma; to who else?

-

There were times when you would be hard pressed to remember your exact position in Zone One — the understanding of being underground could be quite elusive when you found _real _sunlight filtering down, like it often did, through parts in the placement of skyscrapers above.

More a trick, Atlas considered—something that looked ok, but in actuality created its own oppression. He was standing on an eave that jutted out from one crumbling-brick apartment building. The eave belonged to a laundresses's shop, and steam was creeping through the windows. He didn't care. He was busy surveying.He liked to think it inspired him and thus made his resolve stronger.

Such a sad existence this was! He ran this over in his mind and agreed with it like he had every other time. Such a sad existence when there's no real light and shit all over the street, people's garbage and people's trash because nobody cares anymore, and then you walk a block further and some poor bastard is going through the refuse looking for something to eat, and something to pawn for drug money, and he's eating rancid squid that was probably crap when the eatery got it two weeks ago because nobody has any money anyway.

Such a pitiful, yet completely tolerated existence. The tolerance was there because there was no other option; there was too little money to be made to get you anywhere past the gates—arguably you could save and then save more to get you a nice suit and a passport, but you have to have a reason to get a passport—and even if you did make it, where was there to go? Get a job? Not possible. And you can't sleep on the sidewalks in Metropolis. Too _clean_ a city. Down here, humans might have been animal.

He smirked, put his hands in the pockets of his loose and threadbare winter jacket, and examined people behind windows and down on the street. He hated this place. Not because he needed anything better to be happy, but because it wasn't fair. His life, and the lives of others around him, were less than acceptable and more and more becoming bare minimum.

There was shouting from a far corner. He looked and was startled to see a pair of Marduk jogging across the walkway. They were easy to recognize, uniformed in beige and red, the little armband. The firearms, too. They did not appear at all leisurely, and this concerned him. He bent down, retrieved his own weapon, and secured the strap over his shoulder.

Maybe not today, he thought, and climbed down from the eave.

-

Emerging onto the street, he walked down just half a block and found that the Trips Market was just filling up with its usual Sunday morning crowd. The people here knew him well enough and he was waved to, cheered, and shouted at several times. He blew a kiss to a fat man who had given him the finger.

"At-_las_!"

Mrs. Ko beckoned him over with a spasmodic wave of the hand. Cantankerous as she was, she ran a produce stand, and she supported the boys' cause, so talking to her usually meant getting handouts as a reward. When Atlas reached the counter she pressed two fat brown olives into his palm. "Is today looking good?" She said. Her tiny, piggish eyes blinked.

"What?"

"Is it happening today?"

Atlas leaned on the counter and held a finger to his lips. "I don't know. No. Probably not. I don't like olives, Mama." But he ate them anyway, chewing with a snap in his jaw that made her grin. Then he straightened, winked, and wove his way back onto the street. He had to leave. The idea of Marduks and what they might be doing —

"_Tell Cann he can come down for some tomatoes_!"

— was a very pressing thought. He pushed his way through the remaining crowd and crossed the walkway. His typical path home was abandoned, and he stuck to the back streets parallel to the Market stretch. The alleys he passed through were prime example of Zone 1 squalor. He did not speak to anyone as he moved through the tight and tall maze. Though it was not at all unusual for Marduk to come down to this level, the thought of them appearing so near the uprising made him uneasy. There was always the chance that information had been leaked.

More than once he heard people calling out, and he saw one lone Marduk wander along a catwalk, obviously searching the streets below. He was turning into a tiny space between buildings when gunfire erupted from three blocks east, and catwalk Marduk seemed as shocked as anyone to hear it. Atlas bolted for the Three-o-lock Parallel.

He jogged down two flights and through a weave of nasty sub-paths. Coming into a clearing, another Marduk sprinted across and down, and Atlas followed suit. The road led somewhere dark, and he slowed.

He heard voices and someone shouting — orders from someone important, obviously. He looked ahead. This was a scrap dump, tiered, and Marduk workers were stumbling through the above wreckage.

Two children stood together beneath a drainage gate, one boy, one girl. Atlas examined the situation with the blank realization that _they _were hiding from the Marduk. Children and the Marduk? Pitiful. And, intriguing.

"— _not_ acceptable! — _whole area_!"

Ah. That voice. Atlas looked up. Metal pieces were shifted and thrown about. If he were to save the situation, he would have to move fast, and without drawing attention to himself. He tiptoed forward, springing his knees, jumping over and maneuvering around pieces of trash. Up above, someone dropped a hubcap. The boy jumped, and Atlas forced his arms around them both, covering their mouths, lifting them off the ground. The girl was passive, but the boy struggled. Atlas kneed him in the back and stared at him, using his freer hand to put a finger to his lips. He pushed them forward suddenly, and guided them away from the Marduk and toward the alleyway. When they reached Rind Street, he made them stop at the side of the road.

Then he looked at them. It was all he could do.

The boy looked as if he could faint at any moment. Even if he could stop hyperventilating, he was frightened beyond reason. The girl , on the other hand, looked rather oblivious. She stood naked except for a jacket that was probably the boy's, and with an expression of utter mystification.

"Relax," Atlas said, when the boy noticed the machine gun, and in turn panicked a little more. "I'm not a Marduk. Hmm?"

"...Those were... I, uh..."

"Yes. Shh. Jesus, kid. Relax." Atlas reached out and patted his head. The closer look brought realization. "Hey. Hey, I seen you before — you were at the fire. The factory fire? I was there. Earlier? Hah?"

The boy nodded, wide-eyed, perhaps for the express purpose of shutting Atlas up. Atlas continued by changing the subject."...Does the girl — " He pointed.

"She can't speak! Or, yes, she can! I-I think — she lost her memory, or...but she's learning!"

"That's fine." Atlas straightened. His day was becoming increasingly interesting. And the children, well, they were in trouble, no denying that fact. "I—"

Urgent voices erupted from close by. Atlas grabbed each by a shoulder.

"— You're coming with me." He shepherded them into the street, and they left together. Atlas thought it must have been quite a sight: Heroic, insightful leader of the rebellious workers dragging children home.

-

Atlas had never been ashamed of his living quarters. There were better in Zone One, of course, but not _much _better. And besides, the place served its purpose very well. It housed the correct number of people and had fairly good amenities — some running water and fair plumbing.

Still, it was a complete shithole.

"Watch your step," He said. The boy and girl trailed behind him as he climbed a crumbling concrete staircase. There was all sorts of nasty crap to be stepped on — a Machop Dojo beer can, empty bottles of paint-thinner and machinery oil, wrappers and packaging and the like. The walls were hard to distinguish in the dark, and wires hung from the ceiling in inconvenient places. Something crunched under his boot.

"Chh! Is this _glass_?" He swept it aside in consideration for the barefoot of the number and kept going. Three floors later, a door slid open for him. A non-descript thug in a knit-cap and padded clothing, known to most as Carl, leaned into the corridor.

"Atlas!" He said. "Where were you? Every—"

"I know. Not today. Not...not today. We're not gonna do it today. The streets, the streets are _crawling _with Marduk..."

There was a collective sound of angry disappointment from inside. Carl punched the door frame.

"_Shit!_ Somebody ratted us out?"

"No," said Atlas. "The Marduk are, apparently, looking for them." He jabbed a thumb backwards, and shot Carl a look. Carl stepped aside, and Atlas stepped up. A rat shot down the steps. The children followed him in.

'In' was not so glamorous, either. The general headquarters, as it might have been referred to, look much more like a — well, it looked like a group of dirt-poor and very unmannered men lived there. And that was, for the most part, true. There was at least some scholarly business going on — some. Maps and political volumes littered the floor along with trash and bloody, snotty pillowcases.

The stares came fairly quickly. Cann, who was stirring a pot of soup, turned and held his spoon at his side. Buck Flip climbed out of his chair. All of them waited, quiet, Atlas removed the machine gun from his shoulder, but Carl got the first word.

"What's up with the kids, Atlas?" The bite in his voice was obvious. Atlas moved aside and waved a hand toward the boy.

"What's your name?" He said. The boy looked ill, but he said:

"..I'm Kenichi. I'm not from here — I...I'm from Japan..."

"Not a citizen, then?" Carl interjected.

There was a passing moment of confusion. "N-no...I ..."

"Who's the girl?" Carl nodded toward the second child. She said nothing but _did _look up; then, inadvertently, she looked away. There were several seconds of silence before Atlas nodded.

"'K...Carl..."

"You're keeping them here?"

"Yes, Carl."

"You could lead the Marduk straight for us!"

Atlas scoffed. Buck Flip, who had since eased back into his chair, lifted a rifle. "Let's just kill 'em," He said.

"We're not going to kill them," Atlas took both children by the hands. "Yes, they will be staying here." He started to lead them up another level.

There was mild laughter from the group behind them. Atlas grimaced. "They're stupid. Ignore them. Jesus Christ." He kicked open a wooden door. "Excuse the smell, kids. I know. Tab used to shack up here. He had bit of a problem with epoxy glue. Gasoline, sometimes..."

-

End

_+ holds newspaper over face to deflect flood of reader's projectile vomit caused by bad writing_ +

Well, as much as I didn't like that, I think it gives the next few chapters better potential. Thanks, as always, for reading to the end.

To (hopefully) Be Continued! Check back for new chapters!

**As to names**: As Atlas's buddies do not have names mentioned in the movie, I have taken the liberty of naming them myself. The name 'Carl' comes from Rocku's _Call me Kenichi _;she getsfull credit for this. 'Cann' is just a play on 'can', like a tin can. 'Buck Flip' is one name, not a first-and-last combo. It's supposed to sound extremely mean and arrogant. Hence, 'flippant'. Faith wanted it to be Buckflip, but I disagree. Har har.

**And one final shot**: ffnet, you are a vile beast, and your formatting rules supress my creativity!


	2. Chapter 2

_Wings for a Coup d'état_ - Chapter 2

"_Atlas interrupts himself_!"

**Author's Rant**: Jeeze. What was that, like three weeks? I think that might be a record for updating speed. I'll cut to the chase: This chapter might have been considerably longer had I not cut it off and reserved chapter three for tedious things, like planning a new phase of the Government.

This chapter is also tedious, but some interesting dialogue occurs; Atlas goes soft on Kenichi, and our favorite little blonde girl spends her time as a vague enigma on the roof.

Soundtrack: "Learning to Fly," "St. James Infirmary," (From the Metropolis score) and, on occasion, a version of "Minnie the Moocher" ...

Thanks to all those friends who take such good care of me - their commenting is so helpful, whether it be serious chiding over word placement or idle free-associating on Buck's mental state and/or his sexuality.

Here we go, once again:

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

"The girl must be retarded."

Buck Flip suggested this as just Atlas reappeared from upstairs; Atlas shook his head and situated himself behind a desk.

"I highly doubt that, Buck. I think she's in a state of shock."

Someone guffawed.

"From what?" Carl said.

Atlas shrugged as he paused to uncork a bottle of unidentifiable beverage. "You were at the factory fire, weren't you?"

"Yeah."

"The boy...the boy, you will remember, was there."

"Really?"

"Mm-hm..."

Cann came around with cups and tin pans. He ladled his latest culinary masterpiece while Carl and Atlas exchanged words.

"I think the girl was in the fire. I think that's pretty obvious." Atlas continued. Latest word-of-mouth reported that most of the Amber District had burned in this blaze, and the first minutes alone had been just enough to rile the tempers of the bystanders. He had his suspicions. "Both the children smelled like fire."

"Well, that's fine, until you account for the Marduk. Why the hell— "

"I know."

"—would the Marduk want _children_?"

"I know."

"Are you even _thinking_, Atlas? They're pawns. The Marduk will find us through them."

"If you think so, wait'll you hear this." Atlas shot back. "Rock was there."

The group fell silent. Carl leaned forward and touched the desk. "No kidding?"

"He was there. I heard his voice. I heard him give orders. And just think: if Rock is down here, that means he's not dicking around. He wants them captured! I heard him say it. And why would the leader of the Marduk waste his time down here if those children weren't important? Answer me _that_."

"...Point taken." Carl conceded temporarily.

Things fell quiet. Cann's soup was composed of a wussy broth but had enough barley and celery to satisfy. Atlas sipped and stared at the montage of newspaper clippings on the back wall. The entire room was packed with crap. A space heater droned in the corner.

Sometimes things were frustrating here. The stupidity of his own friends amazed him, especially now, when things were so close to being on track. _Important _things.

"Atlas."

"What?"

"So why do the Marduk want the children?"

Atlas inhaled. "I'm not sure." Glasses clinked. He watched Buck chew his soup, a mean-looking street punk with his knees pulled up to his chin and a rifle nestled in the crook of his arm. "I'm thinking it all started with the factory fire. I saw a Marduk start that thing, anyway. So." He shrugged defensively.

"People were angry 'bout that." Carl said.

"Yeah. Well, it's destruction. And we're all uneasy anyway. It's to be expected, really."

"...we thought you might signal us today."

"I know."

"If not today, when?"

"Tomorrow, if the omens are good. I still don't know, you know. There's still a chance we won't have enough support. I don't wanna — "

"What about the President?"

"I haven't heard his opinion yet. And President notwithstanding, I still hope we get the backup we need down _here_, where it counts."

"Even if we don't get the military on our side, we'll take 'em."

"Don't be so sure, Buck. Later tonight, I want you to send some word of upheaval and see what we get in terms of response. If I feel good in the morning, we might...might...uh."

Buck saluted. Atlas sighed and finished his soup with a snap of the wrist and tilt of the head.

"Poor kids." He said. "I'd bring them some of this if I didn't think it'd make them sick."

"Water's cured."

"I know. But I feel bad." Upon sudden remembrance, Atlas turned on Buck Flip. "And _you_. I can't _believe _your nerve."

"What?"

"You said we were going to kill them. Saying 'let's just kill them' in front of children. You ass! Jesus! I couldn't believe that!"

Buck stuck out his tongue and tittered.

"Yeah. Shut up." He pushed away from the desk. "Screw you guys. The kids need water."

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The water _was _cured. That _was _true.

He pumped two glasses and a pan full, and with the three containers held between an arm, he tottered up the wooden steps. Switching one glass temporarily to the other arm, he knocked, then pushed open the door.

Inside was cold and quiet. The boy was unconscious, sitting up against the head of the cot. The girl was not immediately visible, but he gazed out the window and found her standing on the tin roof. Atlas didn't want to startle her for fear of her falling off. Disturbed, he took the dishes and set them on the bedding. He reached out and tugged the boy's shirt.

"Hey. Little boy — "

Kenichi jerked awake. Atlas put a hand on his head.

"I brought you some water. You thirsty?" He handed him a glass and watched him try to drink. It would be more than a matter of thirst. His throat would be raw from smoke and chemical residue. "Is it ok?"

The boy choked, coughed. "Thank you."

"No problem." Atlas smiled. His head was beginning to hurt. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm ok."

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"You look like you've been burned." Atlas touched the boy's face. His cheeks were inflamed and raw-pink, and his hands were peeling. There was a nasty spot on his right arm where a piece of burning soot must have caught him. Atlas met his eyes. "Looks like it hurts a little. Here. Let's get some of that black crap off." He dipped his fingers in the water and rubbed them around Kenichi's eyes. The boy flinched.

"Does that hurt?"

"Y-yes."

Atlas nodded as if he understood something complex. "Uh-huh. How's your friend? Is she speaking?"

"A little."

"Is she hurt?"

"No."

"Well. We'll give her time." Atlas turned away. Outside, the sun was setting, and the buildings were aglow. He moved to the window. It had no pane to it, so he situated himself in the opening.

"So no speaking, huh?"

"No. Just a few words."

"...I wonder what's wrong."

Kenichi said nothing. He climbed up on the window as well. Atlas was watching the city, and the girl.

"Do you know the name of the guy who's chasing you?"

"No. I don't know who he is."

Atlas paused. "He may not want you dead. He may want you—or the girl—for other purposes. Tell me, Kenichi...what happened before you...you, uh, ran?"

"I-I don't know what happened..."

"...the name of the man with the gun is Rock; generally speaking, he's the leader of the Marduk. He's a brutal person, and his politics are extremely staunch. Do you know about the Marduk party?"

"They attack robots, right."

"Sort of. They pretend to control malfunctioning machinery. But they do more than that. They're not all righteous. It's all bullshit, Kenichi. I want you to know that. The Marduk Party is just another face of wealthy power. Do you know why this place is so poor? Loss of labor. No work."

"The robots took your jobs."

"That's true to a point. What's behind it all is big money. It's bullshit, Ken. I'm anti-robot; I want reform for the people of Zone One. But the Marduk do not have my respect or my cooperation. The Marduk don't care about us. It's obvious in their actions. That's why we're going to lead the people into revolt."

Kenichi said nothing.

"...by money, I mean...well. Look up, Ken." They both leaned out the window and gazed up and out. "...The tower you see is called the Ziggurat. It cost hundreds of billions of dollars to finish. It's the work of Duke Red. He's the richest man you'll find anywhere. He is insanely popular among those on the upper level. But he's just as sour as the rest of them. 'S not directly affiliated with today's politics, but he founded the Marduk party. Which is one of several reasons why I can't allow Marduk control. Do you understand?"

"...uh..."

"...I'm sorry. You're..you're kinda caught in it, right?" Atlas attempted to laugh.

"It's fine."

Atlas shook his head. "...Look at this place. No jobs. No money. When that fire stops burning, there'll be nothing there, and no way to start again. No schools, either. I'm lucky to be as literate as I am. Most people can read, you know, just basically 'cause parents or whoever taught them. But that's about as much as you can hope for. That sort of society can't last for long, can it?"

Outside, the girl was playing with the same radio she had come in with. It switched on and off, interrupting the song. Atlas shifted and tilted his head back onto the concrete wall.

"There's a myth about a ziggurat in ancient Babylon. It was struck down by angry gods... because it represented total arrogance. Sometimes I like to think that we — the working people — will be the hand of god this time. Restore some... what is she doing?"

"I don't know."

"Hmm..."

Atlas looked away. The city was so cramped. There was a group across the street that lived seven to one room; he could hear one of the children crying. And numbers like that were not uncommon. Two and three families could barely manage the income for a one-room hovel. It made him sick to consider the wealth some people existed in when there was so little hope down here.

And the boy, too. It was really a shame to see him lost in such a hellish neighborhood, hurt the way he was, hunted the way he was. Looking after the mentally indisposed girl. Atlas watched him concentrate on Zone One's squalor. His eyes were full of worry and his expression read as far away.

"Kenichi?"

Kenichi turned. He looked absolutely pitiful.

"Come here. Here." Atlas picked him up and held him. He was a small boy, really, and he was so abused by the day's events that he trembled uncontrollably in Atlas's arms. "Sorry. Sorry. You'll be ok." He supposed his words could only be so comforting, but for a long time Atlas kept him there, held him and kept him warm as they watched the girl stare up at the sun.

Then somebody knocked at the door. Loudly.

"What?" He sat Kenichi up.

"You're gonna miss your contact, man."

It was Carl on the other side.

"Oh." Atlas sighed solemnly and stood. Then he called out: "I'll be down in a sec, k?" Kenichi moved to the cot. Atlas turned on one foot. "I have to go now." He said.

"Atlas?"

"What?"

"Can she borrow some clothes?"

Atlas stopped momentarily. His clothes, maybe.

"Sure thing" He said, and slammed open the door.

- - - - - - - - - -

Hmm...was that pointless enough for ya? The boys are rude, Kenichi is on the verge of a mental breakdown, Tima's still naked...

God, I love Metropolis.

Thank you for reading to the end - reviews make the world go 'round.


	3. Chapter 3

_Wings for a Coup d'état_ - Chapter 3

"_In my day mechanical men had funnel hats and **showed respect**. Till they got the vote and started tinkering with our memories._" - Abe Simpson; _I, D'oh-bot _(Frankly, I thought it fit really well)

**Author's Rant**: I didn't plan this chapter; you can probably tell. I think it would have worked out better if I kept it tacked onto last chapter, but, I managed to sort of make it work this way. Sort of. My love for this fic moves around a lot; right now, I'm not so thrilled with it, but it is fun.

Moving on: I was watching Metropolis like I do every few weeks or so, and I made a few discoveries. Namely:

1) Tima isn't on the roof in front of the window that Atlas and Kenichi are sitting in. She is completely across the street. You can see her on and off as Kenichi and Atlas move their big stupid heads around. My bad. Also, I think it's sunrise, not sunset, like I said. But oh well.

2) I was originally under the assumption that Atlas lived with a ton of guys (!), but somewhere along the line it occurred to me that he only lives with the three I've mentioned. Which is great, because I've done a good job of not writing about anyone else.

3) I'm beginning to realize that my sense of time is off. I tend to imagine that the movie spans a day, a night, and part of another day. But I'm probably wrong. It's probably, like, a week, or even more. Forgive me. I get excited and I don't think very well.

In other news, I really should have borrowed the name 'Nooj' in place of Cann, because the former kick naming arse and the latter sounds like a bad joke. But I'm still proud of Buck. Yes.

Also, I am pleased to hear that my last chapter contained the compeltly innocent property of 'sweet boy love'. I was aiming for this, I suppose, but I am sorry to admit that there is very little boy love in this chapter, unless you really like it when poor men talk to bald men in a dark alley at night. Go Lamp!

- - - -

Zone one might have been underground, sandwiched beneath a city and above a complex of power plants and waste-treatment facilities, but there was surprisingly little relief from the weather. When it was hot, it was certainly hot. When it was cold, it was _undeniably _cold. Rain and sleet always found their way through openings in the ceiling.

So Atlas made sure he took a pair of work gloves with him. It was January now, he remembered, and bitterly cold outside. His body temperature plummeted as he stepped out onto the roof, and he started off quickly in a weak attempt to maintain some warmth. Buck had had an infection several weeks ago, and though it was mostly gone now, it would be a bitch to wake up and discover he had developed pneumonia. Atlas made a mental note to demand that he slept somewhere decently warm.

For the time being, however, he was more concerned with meeting his agent—a government man from up top—along a dank and stinking canal. There was no name for the thing, and the water consisted of mostly-treated sewage, plus the trash people threw in it upstream. But it was the preferred contact point, largely because the both of them had a need to keep the conversation private.

There was no point in following the street there, because streets would have been the long way around. Instead, Atlas worked across three or four rooftops and down a few fire escapes. Rooftops were extremely accessible in Zone one, for some reason—Atlas always thought that because the ceiling was the proverbial limit, buildings were jammed close and height fluctuated less drastically. Whatever the reason, he had little trouble moving over and down. The overhead lights were beginning to fade from sunset to dusk, and soon there would be little light, relatively. Deeper down, the last stair landing conquered, he dropped to a little brick stoop. Just a few feet below ran the canal, oily and musty smelling.

"Oh! Atlas."

And there was his agent, sitting in the back of a taxi boat, the driver of which was busy getting stoned. The agent's name was Lamp; he was extremely bald and almost as tacky. His personality was hard to place—he was always happy, but there were undertones of plain creepiness. It must have come from working in such close proximity to politicians.

"Atlas." Lamp made the driver pull up to the side of the brick, then stop.

"Hi, Lamp." Atlas said. He tried to keep from sounding too unpleasant, but he was cold, and tired.

"How's things down here?"

"About usual."

"I heard there was a fire."

"A small one." He paused. "What's the word on this thing, Lamp?"

Lamp closed his eyes and smiled. He was chewing on a cigar, probably the very same kind the President enjoyed. "Very good news, Atlas. Very good. The President supports your move."

And this was what Atlas needed to hear; the realization of what this meant galvanized him to some degree. He grinned. "Well."

"The military has his express permission to support you and your people. Boon will welcome you into the Capitol, you and your associates. You will be given time on the floor to speak. Let things play out, and I guarantee there will be help for the people here. Of course—and I know you realize that this, Atlas— our intelligence leads us to believe that the Marduk will react negatively to this action. The Marduk cannot really be controlled by us, as they are Duke Red's group, and he...well, the masses love him to a great extent."

Atlas leaned back and nodded. "I can't trust the Marduk, and I won't." He said, as demurely as possible. "I've never seen a positive effect from their work, if you could call it that. So I expect them to cause trouble."

"Have they caused trouble before?" For a moment, Lamp sounded genuinely interested.

"Yes." Atlas shifted against the wall. "The upheaval might have happened today, but Marduk swarmed the area. Why, I can't say."

"Do you suspect they know of your plans?"

"No. Maybe. No. If they knew anything, we would have had a lot more trouble"

"Good." Lamp reached for something in his jacket and produced a small lighter, which he did nothing with. "Are you going to do it soon, though?"

"Soon enough," said Atlas. He clenched and unclenched his hands to warm them. Lamp tapped the shoulder of the driver.

"I'm on my way, then. The administration will be glad to hear that things are going well."

Atlas tipped his hat.

"Toodles," said Lamp, waving as the driver ferried him away.

And in a matter of minutes, the job was over and Atlas was climbing his way back up. The lights were mostly off now; there was a pink glow to the southwest, but other than that, things were dark. If this were any other night (and maybe not as cold), the group might have gone out to string up robots.

His old purpose was beginning to return to him. Armed now with the knowledge that he had military support, he couldn't help but think of things he had been trying to push out of his mind; he thought of battle strategies and conjured up bits of speeches he'd say on television. But he was shivering by the time he reached the last rung, and when climbed into his living quarters, he was feeling hollow.

-

Inside, Carl was standing amid the squalor with his hands in his pockets. His silence was noticeably disturbing — he had obviously been waiting, and his expression had changed. He was honest now, expectant of something. Atlas curtained the window as best he could with muslin and hardware nails.

"Great news...we've got support." he said, to open the conversation. "No kidding."

Carl sighed, relieved of a burden. This response was incredibly low-key for him, and Atlas could see that things has resettled, and that objectives were refocused. It was a stressful position, rallying a coup, and Carl had a tendency to become rash and fixated. He was helpful in his own special way, but it was still a flaw.

Buck Flip was standing in a dimly lit corner, back turned to both of them. He was servicing his firearms, or something close to it, and he was half-humming, half-mumbling a messy version of _Camptown Races. _Cann was gone; Atlas didn't know what _he_ was up to.

"Carl?" Atlas said.

"Yeah, it's just...ah, you know. Do—do you think we really have a shot at this whole thing? Because I've been thinking about the Marduk, and about the Administration, and I just..." He shrugged, not knowing what his question was.

Atlas smiled, though it was the kind of smile made when something unpleasant had to be addressed. "I worry too," He started. "Maybe we can't see, right? Maybe we can't see what we're really up against? Is that it?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know what's gonna happen, or how its gonna work out."

"Yeah, well—"

"But the president thinks we're on the right track."

"That's just according to his men."

"I know."

"But we can't trust him. Lamp? Is that his name? We can't just believe what he brings down."

"We have to give him credit because we need the help."

Carl tipped back his head and exhaled. Atlas looked at the floor in an attempt to gather the correct words.

"I—I think we can all agree that we can't take the chance of _not _going through with this. We realize...that we need to do this _now_, because things are going to increase in severity. You realize that, don't you, Buck?"

"Yeah," Buck said happily. "Doo-dah."

"Whether or not we are supported, whether or not we are attacked, we have to make it to top gate."

"So we can fall back on our own disgusting image?"

"Yes," Buck piped again, then continued humming. Then the barricade door slammed open, and Cann walked in, smelling of ethanediol, chains clanking. He was holding a pair of robotic hands, freshly stripped from the host.

"Look what the gang from four-o-clock street's been up to." He said, sniffing. The hands were skinless but not overly mechanical or bony.

"Those new?"

"Yeah. They pulled them off of a maid or something. I think they let it go, though. Anyway, Marv said we could have them."

"To do what with?" Atlas folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes, passing through a dizzy spell.

"I don't know."

"I want something to drink," Carl announced.

Buck finally turned to join the conversation. He was still happy looking. "I'll go get some lemon juice. We can make crush—Cann has blood oranges." He said, strapping himself to an automatic weapon and strutting down the stairs.

Atlas left after Buck did, to find clothes for the girl.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Upstairs again, he pawed through his collection of clothing. He still felt somewhat blank inside, and every article he came across gave birth to a bitter thought. A myriad of work shirts , all different fabrics and colors. He stared at them, saddened. Most of them were torn, stained, eaten away form spills when he moved bottles of cleanser and ethylene glycol (fueling the very robotics that kept him from real work) for a few extra dollars on the side.

There would be nothing here to fit a tiny girl of maybe-twelve years, not well, but he could try. Here, a pair of khaki slacks—those would be acceptable and about as un-awkward as anything. With a belt, they would work; Atlas took a pocket knife, punctured in several more holes, and set the items aside. There was a box on the far side of the room, and for unexplainable reasons, there was a pair of children's sneakers among caked boots and ruined tennis shoes. He took these, as well.

There, a white button-down shirt. Atlas never wore it, and wouldn't need to anytime soon, and tucked in the girl wouldn't look much different from the next destitute child. He gathered all the pieces and went slowly to the loft. He kneed open the door.

The blonde girl had moved inside, and she was examining the wall before her when Atlas poked his head in. She turned and stared, but for the first time, there seemed to be something registering his presence. Her eyes— they were intensely green, and they gave Atlas the creeps—were slightly more readable, and her lips and brow moved in a convincing way. Before, the poor girl's responses had been random and unfounded. She looking at him for a reason, this time.

He tried to smile but her expression changed, and she looked at the wall again, giving him a change to escape. Kenichi was silent, looking through an old copy of the Metropolitan Daily News, and Atlas had to tuck the clothing next to him before he was noticed.

"Hey. You can dress her, right?" Atlas asked. He whispered.

Kenichi looked across the street, then at Atlas. He said yes but no sound came out, and to compensate the boy nodded.

Atlas nodded too, but he didn't know what he was agreeing with. He thought about telling Ken that they would probably be up here for a while, or something about when they were going to move forward, or something about the danger of Marduk soldiers, or something about what the exact plans were. But none of those things were good or even necessary.

Unnerved, he backed out and left.

- - - - - - - - -

I am sorry to announce that Tima's nakeditity will soon come to an end. We will all miss it.

Psst. Hey, Atlas!

Atlas: What?

What is Atlas sick and tired of?

Atlas: ATLAS IS SICK AND TIRED OF BEING OPPRESSED BY A BRUTAL ECONOMIC CYCLE!

Also?

Atlas: ATLAS IS ALSO SICK AND TIRED OF HAVING A GENERAL VALUE LESS THAN THAT OF A ROBOT, EVEN THOUGH ATLAS HAS A HUMAN SOUL.

Hey, that's really great!

Atlas: DAMN STRAIGHT IT IS!

One more chapter to go!


	4. Chapter 4

Wings - Chapter 4

Author's Notes: Ah, yes, here it is: the final chapter of this vague but manageable story. It took an awful long time for its size, and for that I apologize.

As for the story itself, I feel I've managed to save it from being too discombobulated by keeping it all very vague. Which, I must admit, that wasn't my intention, but I feel it works in an off-handed way.

- - - - -

Atlas found himself unable to looked away from Carl's eating. It was like a train wreck, only more disturbing personally—Carl had a funny mouth in general, and he was eating cold cereal, hunched over like a little kid. Sometimes bits fell out when he spoke. And as busy as the room was, Atlas found he could concentrate on nothing else.

"That's disgusting, Carl."

More slop fell out. "Not as bad as that tea shit." Carl pointed with his spoon. Cann sat a kettle in front of Atlas; the tea was part of Atlas's get-up-and-go routine. It was composed of various ingredients he bought from a medicine shop a few buildings down, and he added eucalyptus on his own judgment, because he thought the combination cleared his head and kept him sharp. Nobody liked it but him. It smelled.

"The tea is good for me."

"Please."

Atlas sipped defiantly and listened to Buck drone in the background. He was across the room, giving instructions over a radio. He paced and turned, adjusting frequencies. It was a good morning for him, and he looked busy. Atlas wondered if he should have felt busy. He didn't. He felt slightly unaware of the entire situation—not unlike the children must have felt, both of whom were standing in an out-of-the-way corner, silent and watching, like they had been since Carl brought them down on spontaneous orders. They were largely unchanged. The girl looked around and adjusted her makeshift outfit; the boy was still waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he did look interested in his surroundings.

Carl pushed his bowl away. "So." He began importantly, and waited. Atlas picked up from there.

"Are you excited? I'm excited."

"I'm ready, if that's what you mean." He raised both eyebrows in an expression of apathy. "What about your kids?"

"They can tag along until we get upstairs, don't you think? Then they'll hang out until the dust has settled, and they're set. Basically." Atlas sat up. "What's up, Buck?"

Buck gave an earnest thumbs-up. "Everyone we talked to is on." He said. He was a bit sterner than he had been, and for once he seemed to be having an unbroken stretch of concentration. Of course, there was a lot to concentrate on. Today was, supposedly, the day when power shifted, when Atlas stepped up to the plate and made a few things clear. The public didn't know, but the administration did, and that left the entire situation open. But success? Almost certain. The majority of groups in Metropolis would support the working class because it looked good on many levels.

Cann set a map on the table in front of him. Atlas gazed over it—pen and highlighter marks wove all around the streets. It showed the paths the group would take once they made it to the top level. Through customs—a lot of fighting in that area; customs were stubborn s-o-b's—then run like hell. Atlas would go through a number of spiels until he resorted to an all-out verbal assault on fascist zeal and robotic revolution. Eventually the military would show up...hopefully to take him into the capitol.

Atlas could hardly wait.

Feeling displaced, he looked up. The windows were glazed over and mist fell in from unseen cracks and openings. It was sure to be brutally cold outside, and all of them were in extra coats and jackets. They must have looked goofy. Atlas sipped for tea and looked at the map again. Cann threw a tub of silverware into the sink. Buck abandoned his radio job and plopped down next to Atlas, producing his rifle.

"I think this is going to be the best day of my life," he said.

"Why? Other than the obvious."

Someone banged on the barricade door. Buck slid out of his chair and threw it open, leaping almost directly into the newcomer's arms. It was Marv and a select few of his friends. Marv pushed Buck away and stood grimly in the doorway.

Atlas nodded him in, eyes everting back to the map. Marv's gang was a mediocre form of company. He didn't consider himself in great need of help, not now, anyway, and Marv was one of those people who considered their presence to be of superb value when it was mostly just 'there'.

"Brought you som'more maps, courtesy of the MTA." Two maps and several papers were spilled onto the breakfast table. Atlas listened to various explanations, made his own comments, and discussed the ever-nearing coup as collectedly as possible: How strong were they—did they need to be stronger? What were the numbers? How many would fight? How many would fight back? We must be appalling to attract attention. We must show the public our festering wounds and walk with dignity, but not too much pride. Violence should be directed toward buildings and machines to illustrate our enemy. Etcetera, etcetera.

It sounded like it might work.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

The march to the gate was undersized and awkward. They started out, the ten of them, down Five o'clock street. Atlas kept a hand on both children, honestly concerned for their safety, though he strode along with the group and took on the role of mob leader very well. Buck manned a megaphone. Marv's group had two picket signs.

It was a humble start, Atlas said, with great potential.

"Up and at'em, lazy s-o-b's!" Buck took his part as the violent agitator quite seriously, and he added to the number by shouting at windows until people spilled out, ready to join the cause. Three others came hurrying from an apartment, eager but running late. Buck apparently knew one of them because in-between shouts he squeezed one of them by the shoulder and laughed.

Gradually the group gained in numbers, grew in small increments, until there was a mob of about 50 shuffling down one street and up another. Atlas worried out loud that it was hardly enough. Carl waddled along with a map held out in front of him.

"We've got a ways to go," he said flatly.

Kenichi tripped on the cracks in the asphalt, and Atlas caught him with one hand. "Careful." He slowed down to help the girl across, but his attention stayed with the boy. "So once we get to the top gate," He started again, loudly to be heard over the crowd, "You'll stay behind and keep safe, and when the dusts settles, you can follow if you're careful. Find a hospital or a place with a phone—"

"_Remember: Sickness is the mirror of health! Stand now to turn the tide! _Those fat-ass powers are _doomed _to collapse under their own weight, if we can only disturb them the tiniest bit!"

"—and call whoever. CPS might help, might. So you know where your dad is staying?"

"My uncle. Um, no. He's working. See..."

"The police then. They're mostly good."

"'K"

Atlas laughed and thumped Kenichi's back. "I'm ready to do this, huh? Yeah, it's gonna be great. Keep up, blondie. Let's go!"

But the group continued to cause doubt in his mind. Not big enough, not enough conviction. He ceased to feel content.

"Wasn't there supposed to be more to this?" he said, falling back next to Carl.

"Relax, jizzhead." Buck hit him.

"He's right," Carl said. "We need more." But upon seeing Atlas's expression, he reverted to, "There's still a lot of time, a lot of territory we haven't covered. We'll make it."

"Eh.."

They moved on, Atlas only somewhat convinced. He saw a robot in workman's clothes step out onto a stoop and was reminded of the purpose of this little coup. Before he had a chance to take his eyes off the mechanical worker, somebody fired off a round and the robot's head exploded. Atlas looked straight ahead but yelled in agreement with the rest of the gang, fiercely, keeping the children moving fast.

Then there was the plaza. They came upon it so quickly, so uneventfully, but it was full; packed to some extent with a mob of dirty, smelly, rag-tag individuals. Picket signs proclaimed FREEDOM FOR THE STARVING WORKER and THIS IS THE PRODUCT OF UNCHECKED WEALTH.

Upon emergence, Buck Flip took up a megaphone.

"Jobs for people!" He exclaimed, jumping. "Not for robots!"

The crowd's attention shifted. They repeated the phrase, the sound messy but firmly connected with the situation.

_Jobs for people!_

Hah!

_Not for robots!_

Hmm.

A cheer went up. It pitched high and low and was full of noise. Gladly, Atlas's group went down, pushing through droves of people, all panic and unbridled excitement. Kenichi shrank back, but the girl didn't have the intellect to do so, so Atlas pulled her near. Too many delinquents existed here—admittedly, he was one of them, but he feared that some would enjoy the company of small children, or at least the chance to exploit their fright. Still, people reached out to pat her blonde curls, as if she were a holy product of squalor, and to muss the boy's hair, as if he were a sacred war survivor. Oh, the poor things—they had no place here.

The square led to the main Gate escalator. Quite a mechanical beauty, not unlike a path to heaven. It held several hundred people at one time. Atlas beheld it with dark, austere regard as he stepped forward. Ten or twelve stories above, customs officials moved slowly behind tinted glass. Honestly it scared him, made his chest tighten and sweat break out on his forehead even in the frigid weather. But look at the turnout, he thought.

"I see a place for you guys to hide," He said, confidentially, to Kenichi. He pointed to the space behind the gate's handrail. "Run."

Kenichi took the girl's hand and pulled her away.

Buck poked his head between Atlas's knees and topped him onto his shoulders. Atlas, surprised, held on to his friend's collar while brandishing the machine gun for all to see. He smiled. A cheer went up.

Buck held up the megaphone once more.

"_If this is going to work, we have to get through customs and local forces like a big dog_—"

Atlas laughed. The sudden silence of the crowd made his chuckle loud and reverberative. His next breath was icy cold. Buck shifted beneath him, barking and wheezing and finally he lowered the megaphone, raised it again, let it fall to the ground.

"Atlas," He threw his head back into Atlas's crotch. "You're a figurehead. For the mob."

"Cute analogy."

Snort. Buck strode about in slow circles, balancing Atlas's weight. Far away, somebody started a shoulder boom box. Electric guitars and synthesizers fuzzed and whined. Atlas checked a watch, bobbing his head gently along with the music, twisting his shoulders to a familiar note. He let another minute slip by, then patted Buck's shoulder. But before he could command that Buck let him down, he turned and shouted.

"Kenichi! Where...? Hey, Ken!"

The boy appeared from behind a wall of concrete, wide-eyed.

"Hey, you remember what happens here, ok? Please remember!"

The boy made no sign to show that he understood and disappeared back into his shelter.

"Let met down."

"Not yet!"

Carl tugged on Atlas's pant leg. "Atlas..."

"What?" They stepped up onto the moving plates.

"Marv says there's an officer up there."

"Huh?"

"A robot."

"Let me down, Buck." Buck knelt. Atlas hopped off.

He looked up, past the fog and haze, up to the concrete ceiling.

He felt trapped.

- - - - - -

END

I suppose my entire point is: Atlas rocks. He's a good man who just got it a little wrong, and I love him for it.

Thank you for the reviews. They make me happy.


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